


Saving Himself

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:05:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos looks for resolution in all the wrong places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

_Perhaps I was saving myself._

These words return to haunt Athos, night after damned night. With the locket gone, Anne departed and no wrongs righted to assuage his guilt, it seems he’s worse off than ever. A man with no heart, silver or otherwise, to beat against his chest.

Treville tries his best to help. “Take a leave of absence, Athos. The regiment will survive without you.”

The words, however well intentioned they might be, are cutting: steel entering his empty ribcage and twisting, turning, skewering him until he bleeds. His constant companions of the past few years are preoccupied with their own woes and, instead of troubling them, he reaches for an older friend and the peace he gains from the bottle is worth every throbbing temple and sombre look from the ranks.

The floor of the cellar taproom is unforgiving and, propping himself up against the wall, Athos attempts to stop the room spinning with a fist pressed to his forehead.

“Again, Athos? This must be fifth time in as many days.” Aramis takes hold of him with gloved hands and tugs him to his feet, helped out by the sturdy form of Porthos who acts as a brace to one side.

“How did you?” The words fall out of his mouth, sloppy and unformed.

“How did we know?” D’Artagnan stands in front of him, legs astride, arms folded. “The barkeep sent message to the garrison and Treville sent us to come and collect you off the floor.”

Athos groans and slips sideways against Porthos who remains as unyielding as a colossus. “We are not your lackeys,” he says gruffly.

Ascending the steps takes time. Athos remembers falling down them less than an hour since and the aches and pains are revealing themselves now that the alcohol in his system is diminishing. 

It’s a winter’s night in Paris and the sudden acquaintance with a nearby horse trough proves that it is an unspeakably cold one at that. Athos is thankful, at least, that one of his companions bothered to break the icy film on the surface before introducing him to the contents head first.

“I don’t understand you, Athos,” says Aramis as he removes his wet clothes and leaves him sitting on the bed wearing only his underthings, miserable and silent, in the austere inner room of his lodgings. “After everything that’s happened your secrets still weigh you down.”

“You’re a one to talk,” says Porthos, his eyes shifting covetously over the ornate sword that hangs on the wall. 

“What do you mean by that?” Aramis drapes the wet shirt across the narrow window ledge. It’ll probably be frozen crisp by morning.

“Have we not been friends for years?” says Porthos.

“Indeed. The best of friends in my opinion,” says Aramis.

“Then why do you keep something from me of such importance that I can see the agony it causes as you carry it with you?”

Even in his semi-drunken state Athos can tell that Porthos is bitterly hurt, but the secret he’s talking about is so terrible, treasonous in fact, that just to know of it comes with risk attached.

Aramis casts his eyes in Athos’s direction, a warning glance of sorts, but Porthos, raw from neglect, notices the look and interprets it wrongly.

“You trust a drunkard with your confidences, but not me? I can’t even imagine why you would disrespect me so much. A man who I call brother.”

“I didn’t _tell_ Athos,” explains Aramis. “He was an unwilling party to something private, that is all.”

“Irrelevant,” shouts Porthos. “Even so you could still have faith in me. Whatever this thing is, it hurts enough to show on your face every moment of the day and yet you still choose not to share it with me.” He turns to d’Artagnan. “I suppose even you know.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head miserably. “I’m as much in the dark as you.”

“Gentlemen,” says Athos. “There’s nothing to be achieved by this argument. Porthos, you must understand that Aramis is only trying to-”

“Don’t even speak my name,” shouts Aramis, his arm flying out in anger, fist connecting loosely with Athos’s cheekbone. “You’re a worthless man: of no use to anyone, especially the regiment.”

This adds fuel to Porthos’s already raging fire and, his anger now misdirected, he joins in with the tirade against Athos. “Treville has spoken openly of how you bring down shame on us,” he growls. “If it weren’t for your skill with a sword, which is decreasing by the day, then you’d be dishonorably discharged and on the streets.”

“I should imagine after tonight you’ll soon be back grubbing around the remains of your burnt out estate,” continues Aramis.

“D’Artagnan _knows_ how to trust his brothers in arms,” says Porthos, looking from Athos to Aramis and back.

The home truths sting, but the realisation that he has no one left in the world to confide in is the final straw for Athos. He’s shared his life with these men. Maybe not every part of it, but more than he has done with anyone else.

“Get out,” he says quietly. He will not lose dignity further by attempting to throw them from his lodgings dressed only in his small clothes, but at least he can insist that they leave.

“Athos,” pleads d’Artagnan. “It’s not what you think. I only told them to try and explain what happened with Milady. Let one of us stay with you tonight and make sure you suffer no further ill effects from the wine.”

Athos laughs bitterly for the first time in a century it seems. Suffer further? How could he suffer any more than this? “Go,” he says. “I’m a habitual drunkard, remember. I know the consequences of being such.”

 

\---

 

Instead of reaching for the bottle Athos lies still and silent on his bed. It’s just before dawn, the birds are beginning to call to one another, and he knows he must make a move. To do so without a gulp or two of wine will be near to impossible, but he has to manage for the sake of his regiment. Without them he is nothing.

Morning routine completed, he dresses fully, jerkin and undershirt still wet and clinging uncomfortably to his body as a reminder of his foolish ways. Paranoia builds as he recalls tumbling backwards down the wooden steps and onto the compacted mud of the taproom floor, jeers of laughter ringing from all directions. Wine sickness fills his throat as he thinks of the cruel truths spoken to him last night. The bruise on his face from Aramis’s fist serves as an aide-memoire of the degradation he put himself and, by default, every Musketeer through, by the thoughtlessness of his actions.

Weaponry buckled into place and his hat pulled firmly down over his eyes, he walks the short distance to the garrison, the filth in the streets a suitable reminder of his appalling recent behaviour. It’s time to make amends.

The barracks are as hectic and as noisy as ever. Athos sits at an out of the way bench cleaning his pistol and ensuring that his powder flask is full.

“Athos,” says Aramis, clapping him on the back. “You look better than I expected you would.” He perches next to him on the bench and leans in close to inspect the bruise on his face. “I’m sorry for this, my friend.”

“I’m certain it's no more than I deserved,” says Athos, examining his matchlock in great detail. “I have little recollection of last night,” he lies.

“Just as well,” says Aramis. “Porthos and I had a disagreement and you came off the worst of it,” he continues. “But we've made up, have we not, brother?” he says reaching up to grasp Porthos’s hand as he comes over to greet them. “And all is well.”

“All is well indeed,” says Porthos with a grin.

“And is all well with you, Athos?” asks d’Artagnan, last to join them, but, as always, the most astute.

“It is,” says Athos, continuing his preparation work for the day. His hands are trembling and he hopes no one notices the sickness from which he is suffering. Just one deep swig of brandy would fix him up for a short time, but he will not fall prey to that particular demon again.

Treville calls the regiment to muster from the walkway above. “Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, you’ll accompany me to the Palais de Versailles today on guard duty. The King is receiving a royal party from the Netherlands and he and the Queen require your services.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Athos, briskly. This shouldn't be too taxing an assignment provided he’s not called upon to duel with another random member of the nobility. He takes a drink of water from his flask, knowing full well that everyone in the damn garrison assumes it’s brandy. Today this proves to be more than he can bear. Everything weighs too heavy on his shoulders. He is world weary.

“Athos, may I have a word with you?”

He ignores d’Artagnan’s entreaty. The boy had promised not to reveal his private matters to Porthos and Aramis and yet, to put it simply, he had done exactly that. “Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan, you heard the Captain’s orders.”

On the ride to Versailles he becomes acutely aware of the physical pain that, along with his emotionally fragile state, conspires to bring him down. His right leg, badly bruised from the tumble last night, is aching and his head throbs in agony. After drinking another gulp of water, the contents of his stomach curdle and he leans over and vomits into the grass.

“I’ll take that,” says Aramis, riding alongside him and snatching the flask from his person. Athos doesn’t bother to explain that these are simply the gruesome effects of not taking in _enough_ wine. It’s a sickness in which, thankfully, his companions are not fully versed.

It’s odd to be alone after five years of brotherhood. The paranoia, Athos knows, is a byproduct of his malady -- the whispers aren’t real and even if they are then they’re not as malicious as he imagines them to be -- but the solitude is an unrelenting truth. He rides behind the captain and hopes he has not disgraced himself so much that he is no longer welcome at the garrison.

There is a plus side to being friendless, he realises later when they are in the grounds of Versailles. No longer distracted by the chattering of his colleagues he's able to take in everything around him. His name has been mentioned several times -- there's probably an ongoing discussion about his current level of drunkenness -- but he can ignore what's being said because something is not right.

The King and Queen are unaware of any danger. Aramis, Athos is sure, will be far too busy considering the dreadful dilemma he finds himself in, the object of his heartache being so close at hand. Treville is discussing the itinerary for the day with Cardinal Richelieu. Porthos is whispering behind his hand to d’Artagnan, but none of this alters the fact that something is very wrong indeed. With years of experience behind him, Athos can sense trouble. 

What precisely _is_ the matter, he's yet to establish. It may be the glint of a spyglass or the unnatural movement of a branch, perhaps. A slight breeze causes the evergreen needles to shiver on the trees and then, no more than eighty paces away, he can see the barrel of a musket. Too late.

Diving to his right, injured leg complaining bitterly under the force of his action, he pushes the King out of the way and is thrown backward, hit by a splintering agony as his insides are crushed and torn, burned to hell by a searing pain.

“Athos!” is the last thing he hears. He has no idea who says it.


	2. The Middle

“D’Artagnan, Porthos, go after the assassin,” shouts Treville. Having made certain of the King’s safety he joins Aramis on the ground where he is busy tending to Athos. “Will he live?”

Aramis unfastens the jerkin and top buttons of the breeches, pulling the blood soaked shirt upwards to examine the wound. Turned slightly to the side, as Athos was, the musket ball has entered the left flank, tearing a path through the muscle wall, and as far as Aramis can see, exiting before doing any severe damage to internal organs. Guts spill out of the gaping hole in his abdomen. “I have his flask with me,” he says to Treville.

The captain unhooks it from Aramis’s belt then opens it and sniffs the contents. “Water,” he says. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Neither what I expected nor wanted,” says Aramis grimly. “Water won’t do. We need spirits to clean this.”

“Here,” says the King, handing over a silver gilt hip flask. “Take him to my physician, I implore you. This brave man deserves the best treatment.”

“No time at present, your Majesty,” says Treville.

Porthos runs up to them to report to the captain. “D’Artagnan caught the gunman before he made his escape. He confessed readily with a blade to his throat. Turns out, he was hired by the Duke of Orleans.”

“Gaston! My own brother,” says the King, wide-eyed and faintly amused. “Did you hear that, Anne?”

“Not exactly a surprise, my dear.” 

Aramis is too involved in caring for Athos to even glance at the Queen. She’s everything to him, mother of his unborn child, an unattainable angel, and, perhaps, the reason why Athos is lying here butchered. Something which doesn’t bear thinking about at present. Arms stripped to the elbows, he washes his hands with brandy and then douses the wound with spirit, praying that Athos does not fall into shock.

“Surely he could have pulled the King out of harm's way,” says Porthos, his face pinched with worry.

“His leg appeared to be causing him discomfort,” says Treville.

“He injured himself last night.” Porthos looks grim. “Fell down some steps.”

“Clear the trestles behind us and then carry him over,” says Aramis. He has his hands buried inside Athos trying to rehouse the intestine as a temporary measure. He must find out whether the wound is clean as soon as humanly possible. If some material from the musket ball or clothing is left inside then the man will have no chance at all of surviving this. As it is he has very little.

“Bandage him quickly then we'll take him by carriage to the King’s surgeon,” says Treville after they've moved him carefully to the makeshift operating table.

“I’ll look after him,” insists Aramis. He’s tended to Athos and Porthos for years. They trust him with their lives.

“Aramis,” warns Treville. “If he has a better chance with a qualified physician then-”

“Get out of my light, Sir. I need to examine him properly.”

“The assassin is with the Red Guard,” says d’Artagnan, racing up to speak with them. “Cardinal Richelieu insisted on dealing with him personally. How’s Athos?” He turns away in horror when he sees the mess that the musket ball has made, cutting a swingeing path through the man's flank. “He can’t survive this.”

“He will,” says Aramis through gritted teeth. He must. “I need more brandy and my medical kit from my saddle bag.”

After retrieving the equipment Porthos fetches a jug from the refreshment table and tips it carefully over Athos’s side as Aramis widens the wound with a scalpel and then inspects his insides a fraction of an inch at a time. “The shirt has a tear in it. I can’t be certain whether fibres from the linen are still in there. It’s impossible to tell.”

“Aramis,” says Treville, at war with himself over what to do. Whatever drunken and melancholic state Athos might be in, the captain will always name him best soldier in the regiment. Athos is his lynchpin.

“The sooner I stitch him up, the better, Captain.” Aramis looks to his commander. He will not go against a direct order. He’s done it in the past and he has no wish to do so again. He and Treville have made their peace with each other. 

“Do it,” says Treville, looking to the heavens for a sign that he’s made the right decision.

Athos comes to with a groan whilst Aramis is sewing him up. Treville grips his hand and feeds him sips of brandy which trickle out of the side of his mouth as he cries out in agony. “Lie as still as you can, Athos. Focus on me.”

With an unmatched display of resilience Athos keeps his eyes locked on Treville and only the tremble of his muscles gives away the amount of pain he is suffering. Fortunately he passes out again before Aramis has finished.

"We'll take him back to the garrison," says Treville.

Aramis is unsure. The surgery is at ground level and is infested with rats and impossible to keep clean. "His own lodgings may be more suitable." 

"He can have my quarters whilst he's recuperating."

Aramis remains sombre. The musket ball kept clear of bone and organ and exited the body cleanly, but any firearms wound, worse than a graze, has a scant one in ten chance of recovery.

"His own rooms, Sir," he insists. "We'll stay with him at all times. The familiarity of home can often be medicine in itself."

"If you think it best," says Treville, reaching out a hand to smooth the damp strands of hair away from Athos's forehead. "You'll keep me informed of his progress."

The journey back to Paris in one of the Royal carriages is dreadful. Thrown around by the uneven ground, Athos wakes in agony and gnaws at his own knuckle to prevent himself from crying out. He turns his face away as Aramis tries to feed him brandy.

"No one will judge you," murmurs Aramis. "I promise."

"Come now, Athos," urges Treville to no avail.

"I’ve not been a friend to him," Aramis confesses to Treville when, once again, unable to cope with the pain, Athos loses consciousness. "I called him out over his drinking."

"Exactly what a good friend would do," says Treville. "As his captain, I should have done the same many years ago."

"I was angry at the time." Aramis doesn't wish to explain further and instead concentrates on keeping Athos as secure as he can across the seat of the carriage. If he falls onto the floor then the wound might split open or become embedded with dirt, probably both. If it putrifies then there is nothing anyone can do but pray.

"Do not think the worst," says Treville quietly, his hand resting on Aramis's shoulder as comfort.

Aramis thinks the worst because he has _done_ the worst. He left Athos friendless when he was at his lowest ebb. He cannot bear the possibilities that sidle unwanted into his head.

The carriage stops outside the lodging house in Rue Férou, causing a slight furore as the locals peer inside with interest to see who's visiting their arrondissement. They soon depart when they realise that it's just an injured Musketeer. Porthos and d'Artagnan have followed them back from Versailles and, with their horses now tethered to a nearby rail, they see how best they can assist. The stairs are narrow and no stretcher or board will help.

"We should have brought him to my rooms," says Aramis, infuriated that he had not immediately considered his own ground floor premises more suitable.

"I doubt he'll survive another journey," says Treville.

Aramis concurs. The waxy, greyish pallor of Athos's complexion and the weakness of his pulse do not bode well. He's also freezing cold.

Porthos takes matters into his own hands and lifts Athos out of the carriage. 

"Hurry, d'Artagnan, ask his landlady for clean linens for the bed," says Aramis. “She will oblige I'm certain."

The young man runs ahead, eager to play his part in aiding Athos's recovery.

"Careful now," says Treville as Porthos carries his unconscious friend through the doorway and up the stairs to his rooms.

"Thank you, Madame," says Aramis to the young woman as she finishes making up the bed.

"You're welcome, Monsieur," she says, watching as Porthos lays Athos onto the sheet and covers him over. "I'll bring him some bouillon laced with brandy later. He'll enjoy that."

 

\---

 

For five days Athos drifts in and out of consciousness and the few sentences he speaks are a jumble of confusion. The three friends remain by his side at all times, keeping him clean and comfortable, all of them praying that he will wake soon and return to fighting fitness.

Aramis is redressing the wound, relieved to find it once again without suppuration, when he hears some most welcome words.

"What happened to me?"

"You saved the King from a sniper's musket ball," explains Aramis. "How do you feel?"

"As if I've been hit by a sniper's musket ball." Athos drifts back to sleep and Aramis tidies the blankets around him.

"He spoke a little and made sense too," says Porthos joyfully who's been a constant presence standing guard over Athos. "D'Artagnan, send word to Captain Treville."

Hours later, however, Athos is struck down by a fever and Aramis fears the worst. The wound is still dry and odourless. Either the sickness is coming from inside him, or it's a result of some other disease. Whatever the case, he's too weak to put up much of a fight.

"But d'Artagnan said he was showing improvement." Treville enters the room, shocked at the sudden decline of his lieutenant, and kneels by the bedside to take hold of Athos's lifeless hand.

"He spoke earlier," is all Aramis can say. He has his crucifix resting on his palm, ready to offer last rites.

"Put that away," insists Treville through tightly clenched teeth.

They wait. Porthos paces the room, narrow-eyed and dangerous with despair, whilst D'Artagnan is an unmoving statue in the corner, too afraid to breathe. All four of them remain as silent as the grave for hours until Porthos speaks, low and grim.

"He will not die from this. He's had his funeral already and survived it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wound Athos receives appears pretty nasty, but it is the one he is most likely to survive without needing amputation. There are several records of soldiers recovering from similar injuries.


	3. The End

Desperate for water, Athos seizes the cup put to his lips and gulps at the brackish liquid, choking as it near drowns him.

"Slowly now," says a voice as he is raised up from the bed enough to be able to successfully quench his thirst and he opens his eyes to see the kindly face of Aramis smiling down at him.

His first thoughts on waking properly are the usual dreaded ones. How many bottles of wine did he swallow last night? What mockery did he make of himself? There’s a new question on his lips today however. Why is everyone gathered around his bedside, staring at him?

“Am I dying?” he asks.

“Far enough from it that we are able to smile, my friend.” Aramis lays a gentle hand on his arm.

“You had us scared though,” says Porthos. “Don’t do that again. I was worried enough about you to put my own health at risk.”

“I’ll try not to in the future. What ails me?” Athos fears it will have something to do with drink. It usually does.

“The near lethal combination of a musket wound to the guts and a dose of influenza,” explains Aramis. “But you’re on the mend.”

“I’ll send message to the Captain.” D’Artagnan is giddy with relief the way only a young man can be. “This time don’t take a turn for the worse before he visits.” He leans over the bed to speak quietly to Athos. “But before I go, remember this. You are not alone.”

“And however melancholic you feel, never sacrifice yourself for your duty unless it is absolutely necessary,” says Aramis, his fingers squeezing around Athos’s forearm.

“And most importantly, do not get involved in an argument between Aramis and me,” grins Porthos. “It’ll never end well. I'm sorry, my dear Athos.”

Athos brings to mind those events in all their unpleasant glory. He doesn’t recall deliberately putting himself in the way of danger, but perhaps, as alone as he was feeling, his life held little value to him at that moment.

“I bitterly regret those things I said to you,” says Aramis. “I was not in my right mind. You must understand.”

“I should never have…” Athos falls silent. Should never have what? Hanged his wife. Joined the Musketeers. Allowed his wife to escape without punishment. Drunk himself to the point of insanity. “I should never have doubted your friendship,” he says honestly.

“Athos,” says Treville, this time arriving just a few minutes after d’Artagnan sent word to the garrison. “It’s good to see your eyes open at last. I was afraid we'd lost you.”

“We all were,” says Porthos.

“The King wishes to see you as soon as you're on your feet,” continues Treville, angered by the interruption and fixing Porthos with a dark look.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” says Athos, accepting the handshake from his captain. From utter despair at feeling unloved and friendless he's now overwhelmed by all the attention. Too much perhaps and, turning his head to one side, he feigns sleep.

 

\---

 

A month later Athos is renewed with spirit and, for once, it's not the kind that comes from a barrel. Well enough now to be put on light duties, he's happy to be spending time at the garrison rather than lying in a sick bed. His landlady, whilst sweet of face and nature, has been looking after him rather too attentively and he fears the worst. Maybe it's time to look for new accommodations. After today he has an overflowing purse ready to be spent.

"So, how was your visit with the King?" enquires Aramis, sitting next to him at the table and laying out his weapons, ready to be cleaned.

"The usual nonsense," grumbles Athos.

"Funny, because I heard on the grapevine how you've come away with a haul." Aramis looks sideways at him with a smirk of amusement.

"Haul indeed," grunts Porthos, whose acquisitive eye has always been a laughing matter within garrison walls.

"The whispers from court tell us your solipsistic attack has yielded you a new title and lands at the King's behest," says Aramis. "It seems you're destined for nobility whether you like it or not, my dear man."

"And no one deserves it more," insists d'Artagnan, ever his champion.

Athos ducks his head. He did indeed leave the palace with title to a small estate in Blois and the privileges that come with it. His coffer will also be filled after today, ready for his retirement from the service. Most importantly, however, he discovers that he is now able to look to his future and leave all former misdeeds, squarely where they belong, in the past.

-end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for Aramis's unlikely use of solipsism. He's way ahead of the times in both language and knowledge of hygiene. What a guy!


End file.
